Ex and the Single Girl

by Lani Diane Rich

  “There. Think you can do that?”

  I shrugged toward the wall. “Can’t I just hammer the hell out of the wall over there and leave all this power-tool stuff to the big strong man?”

  He laughed and slid the cut two-by-four onto the floor. “We need to cut the wood or we won’t have anything to hammer the hell out of.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, moving in front of him and grabbing a piece of wood, trying to look graceful as I wrestled the thing onto the table. “I’m not sure the goggles are really a good look for me.”

  I put the wood on the table and turned to him, smiling. He reached over and moved a strand of hair away from the goggles.

  “I think it’s a great look for you,” he said softly. I could feel my skin tingle as he spoke. I turned back toward the saw and measured the wood.

  “Thanks for letting me come here and work,” I said. “It’s cheered me up a lot this past week.”

  “Thank you for coming. It’s a nice diversion for me.”

  I stepped back so he could review my work.

  “Looks great,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, looking at the goggles around his neck. “Safety first, mister.”

  He smiled and pulled the goggles back on. I hesitated, almost forgetting about the wood I was about to cut as I contemplated doing other things.

  “Portia? You in there?”

  I looked toward the barn door. A man in a sheriff’s uniform stepped into the barn.

  Davey.

  I gasped and pulled my goggles off, moving toward him. “Davey? Oh, God. Is Beauji okay? Is she having the baby?”

  “Beauji’s fine.” He met us in the middle of the barn, holding his hand out to Ian. “David Chapman. I’m a deputy with the sheriff’s department.”

  Ian shook his hand. “Ian Beckett. Nice to meet you.”

  Davey gave Ian a surrogate-older-brother once-over, then turned back to me. “I need to talk to you about something, Portia.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Is everything all right?”

  Davey’s eyes went from Ian’s face to mine. “It’s Mags.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, my god. She’s sick, isn’t she? Is she...She’s not...?”

  Davey shook his head. “She’s fine. I mean, relatively fine. She...uh...” His eyes went from Ian to me again.

  I gestured toward Ian. “It’s okay. You can tell me in front of Ian.”

  Davey nodded. “Mags is in jail.”

  I blinked. “In jail? For what?”

  Davey touched his upper lip, and I could tell he was trying not to smile. “She let a bunch of dairy cows loose.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Davey straightened his posture, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. “It appears she went to Carl Raimi’s farm and released all his livestock.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “You’re saying Mags Fallon let animals loose?

  Davey rocked back on his heels. “Yep.”

  “My mother?” I said. “With the big hair and the art deco nails and the strappy shoes?”

  “Do you need to sit down, Portia?” Davey asked.

  “The woman who never let me have a dog when I was a kid because it might jump on her and spill her drink? This woman went on a farm and let animals loose?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Portia,” Davey said, smile in his eyes. “She gave us a full confession.”

  I tried to picture it. I couldn’t. Mags was the type of woman who was appalled by both animals and dirt. She openly mocked the “no animal testing” labels on makeup and swore if it weren’t so warm in Georgia she’d buy a fur made from every fluffy scampering mammal on the planet. Veal parmigiana was her favorite dish.

  So what the hell was she doing setting cows loose and getting arrested like some sort of throwback sixties hippie? Was she crazy?

  Oh, my god. That had to be it. That was what Bev and Vera didn’t want to tell me.

  Mags had finally gone certifiable.

  “Portia?” Ian touched my arm at the elbow. “Would you like to go see your mother?”

  “Yeah,” I said, reaching down to unhook my tool belt. “I don’t think I can miss this one.”

  I handed Ian the tool belt. Davey put his hand on my elbow and started to guide me out of the barn. After a few steps, I turned back and looked at Ian, who was standing there with the tool belt in hand, watching us.

  “Do you want to come with me?” I asked. Ian’s smile twitched and he tilted his head a bit.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I mean, unless you need to stay here.” He shook his head and tossed the tool belt on a pile of wood as we headed out of the barn.

  Ian and I followed Davey’s squad car in Ian’s rented SUV. We passed three sheriff’s deputies trying to wrangle a stubborn milk cow into a trailer on the corner of Loralee and Main. Based on the sporadic piles of poop that Ian and I had to step around as we crossed the street to the police station, I guessed we’d missed most of the good stuff.

  “What did you call us?” I asked as we pushed through the front door. “Barmy?”

  Ian opened his mouth, but anything he might have said was overwhelmed by gruff shouting.

  “What do you mean, you’re gonna let her go?”

  We froze and let the door shut behind us. Carl Raimi, a big, grimy hulk of worn jeans and torn flannel, spit on the floor of the police station. I exchanged a look with Ian. Welcome to Truly.

  “Carl, I understand your frustration, but she’s posted her bond and is free to go until the hearing.” Davey tapped a folder in his hand and nodded at me. “Hey, Portia. Ian. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

  “And what good does a goddamn hearing do me, when I still got eight cows on the loose?” Carl hollered after Davey, then turned and saw me. He pointed a finger at me and moved closer. “You’d better keep an eye on that crazy mama of yours, afore she messes with the wrong person.”

  Ian stepped in front of me. He had an easy eight inches on Carl, who stopped and looked up.

  “And who the fuck you think you are?”

  Ian crossed his arms. “My name is Ian Beckett. I’m a friend of the family.”

  Carl gave Ian the once-over, then turned his head and spat again. “Poking the daughter don’t make you no friend of the family.”

  I could see Ian’s hand clenching into a fist. I wedged between them, putting myself up in Raimi’s face, my eyes level with his, and spoke in my harshest down-home tones.

  “You best watch yourself now, Carl. Where this man comes from, people get their teeth knocked out for talking like that. Now you go on back to your farm, and don’t you worry about your cows. You’ll get ’em all back.”

  Raimi’s cold, black gaze bored into mine. For a moment I thought he might go for the fight. Instead, he just grunted at me, shot one harsh glance at Ian, and backed off, grumbling to himself as he pushed through the front door, slamming it behind him. I sighed. Of all the people to cross, why the hell did Mags have to pick Carl Raimi? The guy was the biggest asshole this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

  I felt Ian’s hand touch my shoulder. “Well done.”

  I shrugged. “Guys like that, you just have to get in their face and call them out, is all.” I could hear the drawl linger in my voice and gave a small cough, hoping to expel it.

  He squeezed my shoulder and pulled his hand away just as the door opened and Davey stepped out.

  “Mags should be out in a minute.”

  “Have you talked to her?” I said, stepping around Ian and walking over to Davey. “Did she tell you anything about why she did this?”

  Davey shrugged. “Not a word. Just that she’ll accept responsibility for the consequences.”

  My stomach clenched. “Tell me about the consequences.” Davey sighed. “Well, there was a hell of a dust-up in town for a while. There will be some financial restitution for the cleanup crews and the guys who wrangled most of the
livestock back to the farm. Legally, it’s a misdemeanor. Criminal trespass.

  I pinched at the headache forming at the bridge of my nose. “Could she go to jail?”

  Davey was quiet. I dropped my hand and stared at him. Davey gently touched my arm. “Don’t panic. It’s her first offense, and most of the property has been returned unharmed, so it isn’t likely she’ll do time for it. Raimi’s an asshole, but he’s got nothing to gain from pushing this. He’ll probably drop the charges once he cools off, if y’all agree to reimburse him for his losses.”

  I sighed at the thought of further dealings with Carl Raimi, but there was nothing to be done. “Okay. We can handle that.”

  “I’m gonna go back and get her now. You wait here.” He squeezed my hand and nodded at Ian, then disappeared through the door again.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Ian said.

  I turned and looked up at him. “Thanks for coming with me.” He smiled. “Not at all. I’m happy to be here for you.”

  We held eye contact for a moment, and Ian’s hand reached up to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. My breath whooshed out of me at the feel of his rough fingertips against the side of my face, and I didn’t start to breathe again until his glance flicked up over my shoulder. I turned.

  And there was Mags. Her hair was a mess. Her strappy black shoes, covered in mud and God knew what else, hung from one hand as Davey escorted her into the lobby, with Vera and Bev not far behind. Her feet were speckled with dried mud, as was her dress. Davey handed her a clipboard and she signed a piece of paper. A moment later, she looked up and saw us.

  “Portia, darlin’!” She gave a big smile and walked over to me, running her fingers through my hair. “You’ve had your hair done! Oh, baby, I love it. Doesn’t she look just beautiful, Vera?” Vera smiled and nodded. Mags turned back to me. “So, how are you doing, baby?”

  “How am I doing?” I gasped. “I’m springing my mother from the can, how do you think I am?”

  “Now, that’s a little dramatic. Technically, it was Bev who sprung me.” She winked at me. “Really, baby, you didn’t have to come all the way down here. Everything’s just fine. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  I looked at Vera, who looked away, and then at Bev, who gave me a starched smile.

  “A misunderstanding?” I said. “Mags, there’s a cow running loose in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.”

  She smiled up at Ian. “Why, Ian Beckett. It’s good to see you again. How’s that novel coming along?”

  “Quite well. Thank you, Mags.”

  “Good, that’s good.” She handed me a classic it’s-all-good smile. “I need to get home and clean up. You take care, baby.”

  I gave a slow nod. She grinned at Ian.

  “It was good to see you again, Ian.”

  She winked at me and strolled out of the police station, head held high despite the mud. Vera and Bev looked at each other, then at me.

  “Okay, you two,” I said. “You have to tell me what’s going on here.”

  Ian gave me a gentle touch on the shoulder. “I’ll wait for you outside.” He nodded at Vera and Bev. “Good evening, ladies.” Vera watched Ian leave, then opened her mouth.

  “Honey, don’t you worry none, it’s just that Mags—”

  She stopped as Bev put her hand on Vera’s arm. “It’s not our place, Vera.”

  Vera shot a look at Bev, then turned back to me.

  “Come to dinner Sunday, darlin’,” she said. “We’ll talk then.” I felt my stomach turn and grabbed Vera’s arm. “Look, at least tell me...Is she okay? Is it early senility? Is she on medication? Because this is not Mags.”

  Vera patted my hand. “It’s not like that, Portia. I know it looks bad, but it’s just a...thing. See you Sunday? Okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  I watched through the windows as Bev and Vera crossed the street to our old red Jeep Cherokee. Mags sat in the back, waiting to be taken home. I couldn’t see much of her expression from the distance, but I knew something was different. I knew it. I just couldn’t figure out what.

  “So he...tucked your hair behind your ear?” Beauji pumped her arms as she walked. I was more than a little discouraged by the fact that a woman who was about to explode with baby was clocking me at six in the morning, but I was trying not to dwell.

  “Yeah. I know it sounds like nothing...” I puffed. “How are you walking so fast?”

  “Walking induces labor,” she said. “I’ve been walking a few miles every day during the rest of pregnancy, but I had to take it easy then. I kicked it up to five power miles a day last week.” Oh. God. Five. Miles. I dropped it down a notch.

  “Well, slow it down,” I said, taking a pull from my water bottle. “That baby’s not due for another two weeks, and it might not even come on time. Don’t people go late all the time?”

  Beauji stopped walking and gasped, horrified. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

  I turned to face her, trying to pretend I wasn’t struggling for breath. “So, what do you think? I mean, it’s just a hair tuck. It’s not like he...”

  “...kissed you.”

  “Exactly. But there was definitely a...”

  “...moment.”

  “Right.” I stared at her. “Am I making too much out of this?” Beauji shrugged. “I have no idea. I mean, maybe it’s an English thing. But, gun to my head, I’d say he’s hot to get you between the sheets.”

  “Ah!” I held up a hand, turning and walking away. “Stop! I can’t deal with that right now.”

  “Why not?” Beauji caught up with me. “I really don’t understand this whole, ‘Oh, drat, the sexy millionaire likes me’ bit you keep playing.”

  “I don’t care about his money.” What I cared about was the rough softness of his voice, and the way his eyes seemed to dive into mine whenever he looked at me. The way I felt so much happier when I was with him. “I just enjoy his company.”

  “So where exactly is the problem here?”

  “He lives in London.”

  “Perfect for a summer fling, then.”

  “He’s already rejected me once.”

  “He was being a gentleman.”

  I cringed. “I cried in bed with him.”

  Beauji paused, then started walking again. “I’ll give you that one as a definite mood spoiler, but he seems to like you anyway, so what’s the problem?”

  I caught up with her and debated answering the question before finally coming out with it. “Penis Teflon.”

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” she said. I shook my head.

  “You mean you’re going to throw away a perfectly good famous millionaire writer because of Penis Teflon? It’s imaginary, Portia.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I grumbled.

  I got a few feet ahead before I realized Beauji had stopped. I turned to face her.

  “What? Your water break or something?”

  She stared at me. “Why? Why would it be any easier for me than it would for you?”

  I shrugged, trying to come up with something that wouldn’t make me sound stupid and petty. I couldn’t, so I said what I was thinking.

  “Your men stick. Your father stayed. Your boyfriend became your husband and he’s still around. You’ve got brothers. Me...I’m Penis Teflon. If I learned anything from Peter, it’s that it’s a waste of energy to invest in a man emotionally.”

  She studied me with sharp eyes and crossed her arms over her tremendous belly. “Well, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  I kicked a stone and sent it flying off the side of the road. “Thanks for your support.”

  “The truth is better for you than blind support,” she said, “and the truth is that you can’t know if something’s a waste of energy if you’ve never tried it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Name a man you’ve invested in.”

  I stared at h
er. Duh. “Peter.”

  “How? You never brought him home. I never met him. The Mizzes never met him.”

  I stared at her. I never invested in Peter? What was she talking about? Of course I invested in Peter.

  Didn’t I?

  “I slept next to the man for two years.” My words limped out, lame at the gate.

  “Whatever.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Anyone can be roommates.”

  “We were more than roommates.”

  “Did you ever tell him about the Penis Teflon?” She paused. “Did you ever tell him that you have this insane idea that every man you ever care about will desert you?”

  I stared at her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  Beauji eyed me for a minute, then gave a brief nod and started down the road again. I looked at my watch and headed after her.

  “Shouldn’t we be turning around?”

  “No. It’s only two more miles to the Babb farm. Ian can drive us back.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, grabbing her by the arm. “Hold on there, cupcake. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I am not going to sit here and listen to you ramble on about Penis Teflon for the rest of your damn life,” she said, jerking her arm out of my grip and pumping down the road. “You can come with me or you can go home, but I’m paying a visit to Mr. Writer Man.”

  “To what exactly do I owe this unexpected—and very early—pleasure?”

  Ian sat down at the kitchen table after supplying us with tea and muffins. His hair was disheveled and his eyes bleary, but he’d been awake and writing when we barged in on him, despite the fact that it was 6:45 in the morning.

  “I want to know what your intentions are toward Portia,” Beauji said. Both of my hands slapped flat against the table.

  “Beauji. Stop.”

  Beauji picked off a small chunk of muffin and popped it into her mouth. “What? He’s leaving at the end of the summer. You two need to shit or get off the pot.” She waved the muffin at Ian. “These are very good. Where’d you get these?”

  Ian rubbed his eyes. “Um. Sue Ann’s Bakery, I believe.” Beauji nodded, popping another bit in her mouth. “Sue Ann’s? Really? Wow. You know, they’re right? Everything does taste better in the third trimester. So what’s your answer?”